The Guide Dog Moon Unit

Not long after a guide dog enters your life you see how little the public knows both about service dogs and disability in general. The two discoveries are what’s called “a paratactic reading” in literature—it means two pages have been placed side by side for comparison.

I was on a cross town Manhattan bus when a man smelling of incense and marijuana sat next to me. Instantly I remembered how I loved both those fragrances when I was in high school. When I was 17 I surrounded myself with cheap pot and sugary incense. The man’s odor threw me into memories of solitude and it didn’t feel good. Everyone knows the sensation. It happens anyplace. Old perfumes on the street…

The man (who said his name was John) asked if I ever gave drugs to Corky. It was actually more an assertion than a question. He said: “Man I bet you can really get that dog stoned!” Both love and loss always reveal their furies and I then made a relational mistake, assuming I could parlez vous with King John the Medicine Man. You don’t need a guide dog to make this mistake but I was discovering it helps.

“No, John, I’d never give weed to my dog,” I said. “She’s my eyes,” I said.

“She’s not your eyes,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I’m talking about your inner eye, man!” Then he said: “What kind of a blind guy are you?”

“You blind have inner sight,” he said.

“Your dog has inner sight too,” he said.

“You two need to get together man!”

“We ARE together,” I said. “We go everywhere side by side.”

“You’ve got to know your dog’s inner sight,” he said.

“Here,” he said, and he put a reefer in my hand.

“Smoke that with your dog,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. What else could I say? I pocketed the joint. I knew I wouldn’t smoke it. I was beyond that sort of thing. Maybe I could “gift” it to someone. Maybe I’d just throw it away.

“Look,” I said. “my dog needs her wits. We have a good relationship without weed.”

“No, no!” he said. “You have a big moon inside the two of you, you’re both walking it, you need to go there.”


Angry White Dudes who Aren’t Quite Abiding

I was scanning The Huffington Post when I came across a piece entitled: “Why I’m an Angry White Guy.” I didn’t read it. I’ve enough anger from a life of disability discrimination to fill an abandoned shopping mall in Detroit.

To be clear: I don’t believe angry white men aren’t entitled to vent. I’m all for venting—that’s what a free society is all about. Vent White Guy! (Though you’re really pink for the most part.) Go on, vituperate Bro! Go get ‘em! Us black, queer, womanish, and/or crippled types have been howling throughout history. If you want to sing in the beastly opera, come on in.

But I know you don’t want to join the chorus of the disenfranchised. You’re angry because them Indians, them Negroes, them women who refuse to stay home, them pesky disabled, all them atheists and abnormal types have pushed you into a corner, an imaginary one yes, but a corner you fervently believe in nonetheless.

American anger is circumstantial and always in the air. We’re meant to be angry. Democracy depends on discontent. Every citizen has sand in her oyster. If you’re alert enough you’ll know what truly ails you. Our venting white guys are not awake, not in a true sense, though they feel things. They are, as John Lennon once said: “doped on religion, and sex and TV…” It’s hard to be angry at the right targets when you scarcely know who’s pockets are being lined with the advertising dollars that mediate and extend your unhappiness.

Liberals don’t understand the Venting White Guys. They blame Fox News for brainwashing them, or Reagan for letting them into the town square by inflaming long suppressed white intolerance and evangelical suspicion. I used to believe this as well, but then I revisited the Know Nothing Party, and the spiteful rhetoric of campaigns long past and saw that really, there’s nothing new under the sun.

Liberals also say that it’s all Lyndon Johnson’s fault for pushing civil rights—that his greatest triumph fractured the Democratic party forever—a fracture that Nixon took full advantage of; that the GOP has capitalized on ever since. This is also not true. This premise relies on the idea that racially intolerant Southern Democrats were somehow valuable as rank and file soldiers in the endless fight for the White House. In truth, had the Democrats campaigned avidly for diversity, rather than seeing it as a third rear wheel on the tricycle, they’d have been unbeatable consistently. Obama understood this potential.

Angry white men are mostly 11 year old boys who’ve gotten large. They think the dark kid next door is going to steal their lunch money. They like girls but only if they’re malleable. They hate their parents (the gummint, as Huck Finn’s father would say), they love to parade around in their Duck Dynasty Sweat Pants.

But they’re a fact, like candy or coconuts. Trump has them drooling. Ted Cruz also.

If the Democrats want to be a national party, and not a faintly national party, they’ll work tirelessly both to expand their reach within historically marginalized communities, but also in the ruined suburbs. Bernie blames Wall Street. Hillary says she’s for jobs and progress. Neither alone is convincing enough in my view to offset the widening unhappiness of 11 year olds.

Bernie is closer to the gestalt.



God Grant You

God grant you’ve a dog at your side and a bigger heart than the one you had in childhood. And you’re mindful—if not prayerful than steadfastly self aware of your bounty for the dog, your dog, gives you her concomitant belief in the function of two. You are, together, a neurological “cat’s cradle” of strings: instinct strings and dashing strings; loyalty strings and strings of agreement for which we have so few words. Sometimes I think of invisible refulgent twine, glittering faith laces holding us together, the blind dude and his guide dog. Some strangers see it. A very old man in a rural Vermont hardware store sees us coming through the door. We’re with our pal Ralph. We’re looking to buy sneakers, for in this little town you buy your sneaks at the hardware which still has a faded sign out front that says “Dry Goods” and now we’re inside the shop which has an honest to God oiled wooden floor, the kind you have to sweep with sawdust and a long handled broom, and we’re standing in a swirl of rich leathery fragrances when the old guy says: “There’s two souls alright!”

God grant you’ve a kind wind on the lake. You and your dog push out from shore in your old rowboat. It’s hard for some to imagine, but the blind man goes rowing and often at night. The lake is peaceful then. The motorboats are gone. Sometimes we hear loons. There’s only a creak of oarlocks, the sprinkle of stray drops, and sometimes breezes make their sound of waves in the pine trees.

It’s instinct we love. It isn’t complicated. We love the small, celestial kisses of opportunity.


Beware the Comfy Chair


The Comfy Chair


“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” You likely recall the “bit” from Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Savonarola and his henchmen bursting into a tasteful living room, all wearing scarlet robes, their timing perfect, as a disputatious husband has blurted to his wife: “what is this, the Spanish Inquisition”? How I loved this routine when I was in college, back when there was nothing on TV and the Pythons delivered to us provincial suffering youth something like, very like, an evening with Marcel Duchamp and Oscar Wilde.

The inquisitors push the husband into “the comfy chair”—“nobody expects the comfy chair”!

It was a great skit. A modernist inquisition employs no rack, no thumbscrews, but simply bores a man to death in comparative ease.

My wife decided not so very long ago to buy a “comfy chair” and off she went to our local Syracuse, NY “La-Z-Boy” franchise. Disclosure: I’ve had one of their recliners for years. I keep it in my study and frankly, with low vision I get headaches, and I rest in this chair and it’s been a fine bit of furniture for me. I believe Connie went to the La-Z-Boy store because I recommended it. “They’ve got great chairs,” I said. Off she went.

She bought a comfy chair. A few days later they delivered it and I saw it was far nicer than my old one. I had chair envy. Hers was wider than mine, had more room; it rocked AND reclined; it was a really beautiful thing.

Disclosure: I did not think of Monty Python. Not right away.

After a couple of days Connie said: “Can I ask you to sit in my chair?”

“Sure,” I said, “what’s the problem?”

“Well,” she said, “it smells funny. Like chemicals.”

I sat. Rocked a bit. God it was luxurious. It was a cream puff chair.

“Just stay there for a few minutes,” she said.

It was true. The chair smelled like iodine and creosote. I recalled being in Eastern Europe before the Iron Curtain fell—there was always a prevailing odor in East Germany—a heavy blanket of burnt coal mixed with strawberries. Everyone who’s ever traveled to the former Warsaw Pact countries knows this odor. My wife’s chair smelled worse than that. Think of this: her recliner smelled worse than Bratislava. Moreover, the longer you sat in it you’d have a sensation of being wrapped in a cloud of toxicity.

“Yeah,” I said, “it smells pretty bad.”

“It must be the fabric protector they sprayed on it,” she said.

“Must be,” I said.

“Let’s give it a couple of days,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

The comfy chair really smelled. But Con kept giving it a chance. Each night she’d sit in it with her MacBook Pro and work, or watch a little TV, and one evening she even fell asleep in it.

Later she reported experiencing dizziness, a vague sense of disorientation, and a bad taste in her mouth.

“The stink really surrounds you, like a tent,” she said.

“Let’s take it back,” I said.

We called the La-Z-Boy store. Explained the problem. “Maybe it’s the anti-stain spray,” we said.

“Oh,” they said, “sure.” “Let’s get you another chair that doesn’t have the spray.”

A week later a nice man came and took away the toxic chair and brought in the new one.

We signed the proper papers. He drove away.

The new chair was imperial and stately. It was refined and sat nicely in its corner. It seemed to have feng shui. “Nice,” I said.

“Yes,” said Connie. “Nice.”

I went back to my study and began preparing for my next class at Syracuse University, a course on creative nonfiction. I was reading an essay about the loss of innocence when Connie came in.

“Can you come and sit in my chair?” she said.

“Oh no,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “the new recliner has the same exact odor.”

She was right. I sat and a “poof” of cordite and flaming crow feathers wafted around my head.

“You’re not imagining it,” I said. “This fucker stinks.”

“Do you think it will go away?” she said.

“No,” I said. “It’s in the fabric.”

I pressed my nose against the cushions.

“That’s a smell, alright,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll give it a day or two,” Connie said.

“Well, OK,” I said.

But the chair never gave up. It was steadfast and toxic. I began to imagine it was manufactured from recycled military mattresses and asbestos gloves.

“We’ve got to return it,” I said.

“Do you want me to call them?” I asked.

“No,” Connie said. “I’ll do it.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.” My poor wife! She drove to the La-Z Boy store with the stinky chair in the back of our Subaru, thinking they’d refund her money without a hitch.

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

The manager wasn’t in but was reachable by phone. “No,” she said, “we don’t have to take the chair back after three days.”

My poor wife! Always fair minded, decent, upright, kind. She’d really tried to give the fetid recliner a chance to reimagine itself.

The manager wouldn’t take the chair back!

Then she said, “Well, we can take it back, but we have to charge you a ‘re-stocking’ fee of $125.”

“Really?” Connie said. “Are you kidding?”

No,” the manager said.

“You must be kidding,” Connie said.

“Nope,” the manager said.

Outside, sitting in the car with the chair emitting vapors, Connie Googled La-Z-Boy recliners and funny smells. She found dozens of links about a phenomena called “off gassing”—apparently La-Z-Boys are known to emit foul chemical odors.

She called me. “It’s not just US!” she said.

“What should we do?” she said.

I scratched my head. “Tell them we’ll alert the local media,” I said.

Every city has a local TV station that airs reports about bad customer service. Syracuse is no exception.

“That’s an idea,” she said.

She went back into the store.

In the end she got her refund. They took the chair.

“Nobody expects the inquisition…”

I suppose the moral of the story is “don’t keep a toxic thing imagining it will right itself.”

God the chairs were soft. Beware.






The Love Song of Professor Smugs: A Campus Disability Narrative

I’ve never been accepting of authority figures. If you’re disabled nothing’s worse than a junior high school principal unless it’s a college professor—the one who says your “condition” poses a serious problem in his classroom. (Translation: I’m a succubus, scarcely able to teach; who “lucked into” an academic position long ago; who opposes thinking about pedagogy to any degree.) Yes, I’ve met this “prof” more than once, both as a student and as a blind member of the faculty. Yes, he or she is still among us, preternaturally central and in every academic department. Let’s call her Professor Smugger. We’ll call him Dr. Weatherman. (I’m certain there are prodigal and acquisitive meteorologists but most stand before projected maps reading scripts someone else has prepared, wearing suits that wouldn’t pass muster in the former Soviet Union—you know the type if you’re on the faculty.)

They are the gate keepers, the neo-Victorians, even if their specialty is post-post-modernism or they profess to loving Walt Whitman, they believe their classroom is sacred space, rarefied, the very door to the classroom is a portal for the elect. How many times have I heard college faculty say, unguardedly, over coffee, “I teach for the good ones.” “Who are the good ones?” you ask. “You know them,” they say. Usually they walk away. Neo-Victorians see the world in black and white, good and bad, Jekyll and Hyde, civilized and primitive, though as I say, they imagine they’re post-colonial, gender informed, progressive. Cue the sound of screeching brakes. Dr. Weatherman is absitively horrified to find there’s an autistic student in his sanctum sanctorum. Oh Sweet Christ on a Crutch! The autistic kid has a note taker! Hinx Minx the Old Witch Stinks! This will never do! Everyone knows “learning” is a solitary matter.

When I was a graduate student and had readers who helped me conquer mountains of pages, who were variously reliable or unreliable according to the incontestable vagaries of their respective lives, which means I had to work extremely hard to not only schedule my help, but problem solve when help was not apparent, a matter Dr. Weatherman and Prof. Smugger will never imagine, for they believe the disabled student is merely a clay pot, a dingus, I learned that words are a communitarian matter, democratic, sweet, equalizing, and not always easy to attain. Which means I discovered what every writer has ever known. The literary arts are never leisure. Nor are they to be received like an office memorandum.

Department Chairs, Deans, Program Directors, and too many administrators to count believe they’re obligated to “have” the disabled on campus. In this way, their attitude is no more sophisticated than the view that they’re obligated to report staph infections or stolen cars. Authority figures on college campuses don’t by and large feel obliged to convey enthusiasm about admitting or supporting the disabled. As a matter of course the stories of disabled students cross my desk—how else should it be, I’m a reasonably prominent faculty member who belongs to the “crippled” set. I hear the story of a freshman who didn’t get note taking provided for her in a timely way and who in turn failed a class unjustly. The university has so far failed to redress the injustice. Administration deflects. Simple problems apparently can’t be resolved. One is tempted to believe that there’s a pervasive feeling, unstated, but true as rain, that if spoken would sound like this: “Isn’t it enough we’ve admitted them? Now you want us to problem solve? How do you like my Soviet suit?”

My Finnish grandmother, an authority figure if ever there was one, used to say: Tämä uusi suunnitelma on vastoin minun ajatellutapaani. (This new plan goes against my way of thinking.”

If you’ve a disability you know the phrase. Professor Smugger doesn’t like the fact you’re learning in a different key. She knows only one song. Everybody can imagine the title of that song.

Horse, Dream, Man, Helsinki 1980


Early morning and only street sweepers and a lone policeman are in view. The cop is Scandinavian, upright, descended from generations of straight men and women and he’s so bold he appears like a mythological extension of his horse, some god risen from an animal’s back. I don’t see well and have to draw near to find he’s a horseman and when I’m very close I hear the man talking gently, so quietly he’s like that ancient father we all long for, the horse father.


“My good girl,” he says, “my creeper, my softy hooved…”

“Lord,” I think, “he’s James Joyce.”

He says: “Girlie it’s a pinkpink morning.”

Says: “Experience, experience, it’s all in us.”

I’m walking home after a night of carousing. I’m 25, heartily youthful, so in love with the world my lips twitch, and in the coming years I’ll often talk to myself.

“You’re horse is beautiful,” I say, peering upward in rosy air. The horse is very tall and the man is tall and they are far above in emerging light.